


Like a Virgin

by trajektoria



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Asexuality, Cuddles, Drunk John, First Date, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Humour, Jealousy, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Misunderstandings, Romance, Teasing, Understanding John, Virgin Sherlock, fluff overload, gossips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:43:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trajektoria/pseuds/trajektoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluffy take on how the relationship between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson bloomed and turned into something more. All the joys and struggles of being together and figuring out one's feelings, a first drunken kiss - an experiment, I mean (for science, John!) - first date and perhaps even a first time. If Sherlock would want to do it, of course, since he considers himself asexual. But John is patient and understanding...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Like a Virgin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started working on Like a Virgin, I didn't have any beta, so first chapters had lots of grammar mistakes. That's why I decided to have them checked to make the fic as enjoyable as possible. Hopefully, all the mistakes from previously unbetaed chapters are now successfully eradicated. Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text.

As John staggered up the stairs to their shared flat at 221B Baker Street, struggling to keep his balance in a really pathetic and futile impression of a walk, he decided that spending the whole evening in the "Red Lion", drinking pint after pint, maybe hadn’t been such a good idea.

It was all Sherlock's fault, as usual. A few hours ago he had fervently announced that he was bored out of his mind, and, since there wasn't any interesting case available, it could be fruitful to go to a pub and try spying on people. After all, drunken clientele are more prone to spill the beans and reveal some juicy secrets. At least, that's what Sherlock had claimed, using sophisticated vocabulary and making those puppy eyes that you simply couldn't refuse. The truth was, John didn't really want to oppose him this time, because an evening in a pub sounded fantastic. He imagined that a bit of unwinding would be a nicer pastime than chasing criminals all around London, as they normally did. So John was quite glad when he and Sherlock went to the "Red Lion" nearby. 

Not everything went as planned, though. It turned out that some Polish guy was celebrating his promotion at work with a bunch of his compatriots. The wild group, inebriated to the fullest, was partying hard and asking every guest at the pub to come and drink with them. And if John had ever learned anything about immigrants in London, it was that one does not simply say no to a Pole, when he is encouraging you to drink with him. No one ever said “No” to such a proposition and lived to tell about it. In the end, John ended up with a beer mug that never seemed to be empty, no matter how much he drank out of it.

Alcohol has an amazing ability to bring people together, so Doctor Watson soon greatly expanded his Polish vocabulary, learning how to say "good morning," "cheers" and an awful lot of swear words. It was fun while it lasted, but for most pleasures in life you have to atone with a sorry state some time after. And that's the reason why John now struggled so desperately with going up to their apartment. 

Sherlock, however, seemed to be in much better shape. He looked surprisingly sober, and climbed the stairs first with little effort. The only indication that he had in fact been drinking was the flush on his normally pale cheeks. John had his suspicions that Sherlock had poured his own beer into his friend's mug, but sadly he couldn't prove anything.

At least John got a little revenge in the taxi when they were coming back from the pub. The cabby must have been a big fan of Madonna because he sang "Like a Virgin" during the entire ride. The look of utter horror and distaste on Sherlock's face was priceless. 

Finally, the stairs ended and John put his back against a wall in their living room. 

"My God, one more stair and I'll start howling. No way I'm climbing up to my bedroom. I guess I'll just pass out here and sleep on the carpet," said John adamantly, with a slight drunken lisp.

"You can always sleep with me. My bed is big enough for two," Sherlock proposed unexpectedly, taking off his coat and hanging it on the hook. 

John stared at him with disbelief. "What? Sherlock, are you serious?"

"Yes, I am. Problem?"

"People will definitely talk if they see us sleeping together!"

"What people, John? Look around, there's only us here," he stated in a condescending tone, observant as always. 

"Well... you're right, but still..."

Sherlock didn't shrug his shoulders, because that wasn't his style, but his facial expression gave it all away. "As you wish. I hope the floor will be comfortable enough for you".

Sherlock turned around and went to his room without looking back. 

John stared at the floor, and realised on second thought that sleeping there might not be such a great idea after all. His gaze rested on the couch, which was another potential spot for sleeping. But it was all covered with Sherlock's stuff – John couldn't identify half of the things lying there and, to be honest, he didn't really want to. Tidying up at this hour was out of the question, so John looked in desperation at the armchairs. However, he had spent a night there once, and the next morning he’d felt as if every single bone in his body was aching. His options were wearing thin. 

"Oh, sod it," he sighed with anger, and dragged himself to Sherlock's room. The owner was already lying on the bed and didn't look surprised in the least to see his companion at the door. John took off his shoes, which required some time and unbelievable skills, and then laid down beside Sherlock. 

"If some crazy paparazzi takes a photo of us now and publishes it in every tabloid, it won't be my fault," said John grumpily. 

"Would it really bother you so much?," asked Sherlock, turning his head towards John. 

"Yes!"

Sherlock smiled. "You pay too much attention to what people think. They're all morons."

"Yes, all except the omniscient Sherlock Holmes and his massive intellect," John commented sarcastically. He fell silent for a moment to gather his thoughts. "You know, there's something I want to ask you, and I'm actually drunk enough to do it."

"Ask, then." 

"Is it really true what Mycroft implied?"

"And what did Mycroft imply?"

"Well, that you've never slept with anybody?"

"I'm sleeping with you now, am I not?"

"No! I meant sleeping like... you know, being intimate with somebody."

Sherlock squinted his eyes. "And why do you want to know that?"

"No reason, just curious. And as far as I know, you value curiosity very much," John added casually. 

Sherlock just kept staring at him and didn't reply.

"Um, well, if you don't want to talk about it, it's okay..." John began speaking apologetically, but Sherlock stopped him. 

"If you have to know, I've never felt the urge to... mate," he said, almost spitting the word. John honestly didn’t look very surprised.

"I see... Well, considering your looks, if you've never had anyone, it must mean that you're asexual, right?"

"Brilliant deduction, John. You're improving. Maybe one day you'll become a consulting detective as well," Sherlock stated snarkily. John knew him too well to feel offended; he just laughed.

"Well, that kind of fits."

"Fits?"

"Yes. You distance yourself from anything human, so it's only fitting that you lack human desires."

"Not having a sex drive doesn't make me any less human, regardless of what you may think." Sherlock's expression was dead serious and maybe even a bit hurt. 

"I know, Sherlock. I know," he said soothingly. "I was just joking, don't take it too seriously. It's booze speaking, after all. But I was wondering... Well, have you ever been in love?" John was quite abashed for asking that. 

"In love?"

"Yes, did you ever love somebody?"

Sherlock was looking intensively at the celling, as if something really interesting was going on there. 

"...I don't know."

"What? How can you not know such a thing?!" John exclaimed.

"Feelings, John!" he bellowed in frustration that was fuelled by his tipsiness. "They're dangerous, irrational and vague! How can you make any sense out of them?" 

"That's the point of feelings. You do not analyse them, you just... feel them."

"My mind doesn't work that way, John."

Watson didn't know how to reply, so he remained silent. It was Sherlock who finally broke the silence after a few long minutes. 

"Let's do an experiment, John."

"An experiment? What experiment?," inquired the doctor. 

"Kiss me."

"What?!"

"Kiss me, John," he repeated patiently.

"Kiss you? I'm not gay, you know." 

"I'm not asking whether you're gay or not. I'm asking you to kiss me. Do you have some sort of hearing impediment?"

He tried a different approach. "Why should I kiss you, anyway?"

"It's an experiment. I cannot tell you anything more, because it would impair the results."

John didn't seem convinced.

"Experiment? Just an experiment?"

"I cross my heart. Or I can cross my brain if it would seem more trustworthy to you." 

John sighed with resignation.

"What the hell am I doing... ?” he muttered. “If somebody sees me, I'm going to kill you." He leaned towards Sherlock. Hesitantly, he placed a gentle kiss on Sherlock's lips, and then quickly moved back as if they were burning. He looked clearly freaked out.

"That's how you're kissing your girlfriends? It's no wonder that they dump you on the spot!" Sherlock taunted him with a smirk on his face. 

"Oh, damn you, Sherlock Holmes!" John yelled, and pressed his lips against Sherlock's. He was really pissed (in both senses of the word) and he just wanted to make that smart arse finally shut up. He put in that kiss all of his anger and all the hidden feelings that surfaced when he lost his self-control. He stroked those distracting cheekbones with his fingers and kept kissing Sherlock deeply, mingling their tongues together. That felt surprisingly... right.

When they finally parted, they eyed one another for a while. Sherlock had never looked so clueless in his entire life. John broke the eye contact first and cleared his throat to mask his embarrassment. 

"So... The results. What are the results? Of your experiment, I mean?"

"The results are... inconclusive," said Sherlock, breathing heavily. "The experiment may need to be repeated in due time."

"What? Sherlock-"

"Good night, John."

Sherlock turned his back on his friend. He didn't want John to see the big smile showing on his face.


	2. Uncertainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still friendship or maybe love? Apparently, only science can tell. And magazines for women.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text.

Six o'clock in the morning is never the right time to wake up after a drinking session. John Watson moaned and groaned and tried to go back to sleep, but repeated thuds, rustles and beeps coming from the living room rendered his intention impossible.

He opened his eyelids slowly, but the sunlight attacked his pupils with the force of a nuclear blast, causing him to put a pillow over his head with the faint hope of blocking out the dazzling brightness, which pierced right through his skull. He felt as if a herd of elephants was tap dancing inside his brain, his throat was bone dry and the taste inside his mouth indicated that he must have at least munched on a dead cat. He moaned heartbreakingly once again, wishing he were dead. The noises from the living room, without a doubt produced by Sherlock, certainly didn't improve his physical and mental condition.

When he finally gathered strength to sit up, he started massaging his temples and tried to pull himself together. He wondered for a moment why he stank like a brewery and pondered for a significantly longer period of time why he was sleeping in Sherlock's room. To be more specific: Sherlock's bed.

 _Thank God, I'm not undressed..._ , he thought to himself with relief, looking at his crumpled clothes. The blurry events of the previous evening finally started to sink in.

He remembered going to a pub with Sherlock and gulping down ridiculous amounts of beer with partying Poles. Then, the taxi driver sang Like a Virgin incessantly, which at that time seemed hilarious. Later, John felt too tired to climb the stairs to his bedroom, so he ended up in bed with Sherlock. Afterwards, he asked Sherlock if he was still a virgin and if he had ever loved somebody. And finally...

"Oh God... I kissed him," John sighed, feeling how shame was colouring his cheeks red. He couldn't do anything but marvel at his own stupidity. "Twice. Well, this is awkward..."

He didn't really want to leave the room and face his flatmate, but he desperately needed something to drink. And a bath. So despite his embarrassment and the irritating pounding in his head, he managed to stand up and drag himself to the kitchen.

From there he could clearly reconstruct how Sherlock had been dashing about the living room all morning and making a ruckus. The room seemed even more messy than usual. Actually, it looked as if a tornado had attacked 221B Baker Street. Apart from the ordinary disorder, John spotted a huge pile of books on the table and on the floor. He could only make out one title, "The Chemistry of Love," but it got him thinking. On the carpet, near the books, a few issues of glossy magazines for teenage girls and women were scattered. That really got John thinking.

Sherlock was currently sitting at the table, as fresh as a daisy in his spotless clothes, and scribbling something on a sheet of paper. His left forearm was wrapped up in a pneumatic armlet of the blood pressure monitor.

"Good morning, John. How was the night?", he asked with a smile, throwing one of the books at the floor with a loud thud, and then shifted his attention completely towards the contraption.

"Too short," he replied carefully, flinching at the sudden noise. His eyes were squinted half shut from a persistent headache. He tried to behave normally, despite the fact that memories from yesterday were making him feel really awkward. "Is that a blood pressure monitor?" he couldn't help but ask. That was really bizarre.

"Obviously. I've borrowed it from Mrs. Hudson."

"Is this one of your weird experiments again?" The words left his mouth before he could bite his tongue. He didn't want to remind Sherlock about the experiment they conducted last night, but it turned out he didn't need to. Sherlock had a brilliant memory.

"You can treat it as a scientific extension of the conversation about love that we had yesterday."

"Oh...?" John commented vacantly, imagining how his ears were turning red. He didn't really want to know the details, but Sherlock provided them anyway.

"I'm measuring my blood pressure while thinking about the object of my alleged affection."

"What?", he asked, but then his head started to throb painfully again, so he gave up. "I don't really care what you're doing. I'm going to take a bath."

"After you're done, you might want to look into the fridge. There's a bottle of kefir waiting for you."

"Kefir?", he echoed.

"Fermented milk. Reportedly brilliant for the hangover. It's standing near the human liver, but don't mind that," he warned with a wave of dismissal.

"What is it doing there?" John asked, surprised.

"Molly allowed me to borrow the liver for-"

"No, I meant this kefir thing."

"I bought it for you."

"You never buy anything for me." John gave him a suspicious look. In response, Sherlock smiled innocently.

"Well, maybe I needed a change."

"Um, thanks, Sherlock." John scratched his head and withdrew to the bathroom, seriously confused. He didn't see how Sherlock - after a moment of consideration - triumphantly put a tick on the sheet of paper.

 

 

After a long and pleasant bath, John once again felt like a human being. He didn't reek of beer, which was also an improvement. His head was still killing him though, so he trudged to the kitchen, wrapped up only in his bathrobe. He glanced at Sherlock, who was preoccupied with a teen magazine and was taking notes furiously. John preferred not to pay too much attention to his flatmate, so he made a beeline for the fridge. He found there the bottle of kefir and, even though the sight of a human liver was a bit unsettling, he decided to ignore it and tried the drink.

"It's not that bad," he stated, and finished the bottle peacefully. Or so he wanted to do, before Sherlock gave out a random shriek, almost causing the good doctor to choke to death.

"I NEED MORE DATA!"

"What the hell, Sher-" But he wasn't able to finish, since his friend materialised before him, whisked the empty bottle away from his grasp and threw it into the sink. He moved so close to John that their noses were almost touching. John wanted to back away, but he couldn't since Sherlock had pushed him against the fridge.

"Are my pupils dilated?", he asked with genuine curiosity vibrating in his voice.

"Wha-"

"Are my pupils dilated right now?", he repeated impatiently.

"Um, maybe...?"

"Maybe is not an answer. Yes or no?"

"No."

"The stimulus must be too weak," he murmured to himself, calculating something. After this short thinking session, he announced with full conviction, "John, you have to kiss me again."

"Oh, no, no. I'm done kissing you," John declared steadfastly. He tried to break free, but Sherlock didn't move an inch.

"Why?"

"That's insane! I only did it because I was drunk!"

"Was it that bad?", he asked, somewhat hurt.

"No!", he yelled with anger, but then regained his composure. "That's not the point. I'm not doing this."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John, it's for science!"

"No, it's not!"

"It is! I need to figure out the problem!"

"What problem?"

"Love problem!"

John looked at him incredulously.

"You serious?"

"Dead serious. I can't do it without you!", he pleaded, looking him in the eye.

 _You're going to a special kind of hell for this, Sherlock Holmes_ , John thought to himself. But he said aloud with resignation, "Okay, fine."

"Thank you, John." He smiled and moved his lips closer to John’s. "Do it slowly," he muttered under his breath, and then closed his eyes.

John gave a noiseless sigh and placed one hand on Sherlock's neck and the other on his cheek. He gently stroked the detective's smooth skin before he allowed their lips to touch. He remembered the softness and suppleness from yesterday, even though he had really tried to forget. The familiar taste of Sherlock's mouth and the warmth of his tongue made John lose himself in the moment. It was a bittersweet sensation, the feeling of being so close and yet so far away. He hadn't realized it before, because he was drunk and didn't care, but now it was painfully obvious. These kisses didn't mean a thing to Sherlock.

He let go of Sherlock and looked at him with a hint of sadness. Sherlock stared back and asked unexpectedly, "Are my pupils dilated now?"

That caught John off guard. He completely forgot what they discussed a few minutes ago.

"What?"

"John, concentrate!" he huffed, annoyed. "Are my pupils dilated?"

 _I've got a hangover, I just stopped kissing you, and my mind is racing. How can I concentrate?_ he thought, but somehow managed to produce a sound.

"Not really. No."

"Yours are, though...", he stated thoughtfully and rushed to the living room, where he once again began scribbling something on the sheet of paper. John just stood there confused and listened as Sherlock loudly recited the long list to himself:

"...racing heart: check. Rapid pulse: check. Sweaty palms: moderately. Shivers: no. Breathing disorder: mild. Stomach contractions: none. Fainting: no. Problems with concentration: no. Lack of appetite: no. Wanting to please the object of affection by buying him/her a present: check. Dilated pupils: no. Sensitivity to touch: considerate..."

The realisation of what was happening hit John like a hammer. He just couldn't believe his ears, even though he should have been expecting something like that.

"Hold on, Sherlock. Are you really trying to scientifically decide whether you're in love?"

"Obviously," he admitted simply. "Love is nothing more than a storm of hormones. The body doesn't lie; it shows symptoms. All the answers are there!"

"Well, good luck with finding the answers in teen magazines..." John stated sarcastically. He felt disappointment rising in his chest, even though he was perfectly aware how stupid that feeling was. The best thing to do now was to retire to his room, but Sherlock stopped him before he could move.

"John, wait... According to my research, there exists a 52% chance that I may be in love with you. The results, however, are not final and conclusive, since the subject matter proves to be difficult to precisely measure," he announced formally, as if he was speaking to a crowd of scientists at a conference. Completely detached from his research. "That is why it cannot be decided with absolute certainty whether I love you or not."

"Sherlock in love? England would fall!" John replied flatly, fighting the urge to punch a wall.

Sherlock, however, seemed not to pay any attention to what John had just said. He scanned the text anxiously once again, and this time a look of genuine surprise could be seen on his face.

"John..."

"Hm?"

"91%..."

"91%? You're not making any sense, Sherlock."

"91%. Those are the odds that you're in love with me..."

John froze. This can't be happening. Sherlock was, is, and always will be just a friend to him. JUST A FRIEND. He had never thought of him differently. And even if he had, he always managed to explain to himself how preposterous that idea was. He couldn't possibly love Sherlock Holmes. That was just ridiculous.

He turned on his heel and began walking away to his room.

"John?", Sherlock cried at him in confusion.

"Leave me alone."

"But John-" He ran after him and put a hand on his shoulder, but John turned around violently and yelled in his face,

"I SAID: LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Sherlock wasn't the type to be easily surprised, but now he was startled and at a loss for words. John's sudden outburst was inexplicable.

"What's wrong, John?", he managed to say after a long and awkward pause.

Watson didn't reply. He clenched his fist and averted Sherlock's gaze.

"You do love me, John."

"I do not!"

"Everything fits, you have to!"

"Stop toying with me! I'm not your lab rat," John snarled at him, losing his patience.

"Are you really mad because I experimented on you?", He rolled his eyes and added matter-of-factly, "I've done it before and you never were so upset!"

"This time is different! You've crossed the line. You cannot fool around with people's feelings! Besides, for the record, I'm not gay, so there's no possibility that I could love you!"

Sherlock tilted his head, analysing the situation.

"Do you really have to be gay to love me?"

"What are you saying?" John shook his head in disbelief.

"Maybe you're not gay. Maybe I'm just your exception."

"Exception?"

"You're not normally attracted towards men, but for some reason you're attracted towards me. You love me for who I am, and I just happen to be a man. Or you might be bisexual, just with a preference towards women, which is more likely."

John listened to this reasoning and found it scary that it made so much sense. He remembered all that Irene Adler told him - "Look at us both." Still, he didn't feel comfortable with this revelation and he desperately wanted to divert the attention from himself.

"And what about you, Sherlock?", he asked tentatively.

"What about me?"

"You said that you're still not sure about love..."

"I am not. But I definitely find you interesting and attractive. That's a fact."

"I guess it's something, coming from you." John gave him a weak and embarrassed smile. Sherlock seemed slightly bemused.

"I'm sorry, John. I didn't mean to... do whatever I did wrong," he apologised so awkwardly, that John just couldn't help but laugh.

"It's okay. It's not like I can stay angry at you for a long time, anyway." After they exchanged smiles, John added, "So what now?"

"I don't know. Keep researching, perhaps? Love is not really my area of expertise."

"Mine neither. I've blown up every relationship I ever had."

Sherlock chuckled. "I know that much."

John shook his head .

"Love is far too complicated an issue to discuss it at this hour. Want some tea?"

"Yes, please," Sherlock agreed and followed John to the kitchen. As the doctor started preparing the cups, Sherlock cleared his throat and asked hesitantly, "Will you kiss me again sometime, John? For science, of course."

"Only if you ask nicely." John turned to him and smiled, putting the kettle on.


	3. Wanting More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of slurping... well, _kissing_ , a bit of experimenting, a bit of sulking, and a first date. Nothing is easy with Sherlock, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text.

John sometimes had really strange dreams and the one he was experiencing right now was definitely among the weirdest. He felt a big and slimy snail sucking on his forehead, trying to make a hole in his skull and slurp up his brain. John tried to scream or defend himself, but he was powerless.

He was relieved when he woke up and the surreal dream ended. However, the sucking feeling didn't go away, which almost gave him a heart attack. He jumped up in the armchair, causing Sherlock to back away.

"What the hell?" he asked in utter confusion, fixing his gaze on Sherlock's intrigued face. He moved his hand to his forehead and felt moisture there. "What the hell, Sherlock?" he repeated with anger.

"Waking somebody up with a kiss is said to be very romantic," Sherlock stated in a scholarly tone.

John looked at him with disbelief and snorted. "Where did you get that?"

"Cosmopolitan."

"You need to stop reading that crap," he sighed, shaking his head with resignation. Sherlock's new hobby – browsing through teen and women magazines, taking notes and trying various awkward tricks on John – was slowly driving him mad. The doctor wiped his forehead with his sleeve and went to the mirror, dreading what he might see there.

He gasped in horror. There was a big and throbbing hickey just above his left eye.

"Sherlock!" he huffed, annoyed. "That's not what you call a waking kiss! It should be gentle. Gentle!"

"When I kissed you lightly you didn't react, so I had to apply more force." Sherlock seemed offended that his endeavours weren't properly appreciated.

"Sucking on someone's skull can hardly be considered kissing," he retorted. Sherlock was so hopeless sometimes.

The detective didn't reply. He just turned on his heel like a wronged prima donna and threw himself on the couch, sulking.

John rolled his eyes. Not only hopeless, but also a child.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock..."

"I'm not talking to you," he announced haughtily.

"Fine." The doctor shrugged his shoulders and sat on the armchair, pretending to read a newspaper. He started the countdown in his head.

_5... 4... 3... 2... 1..._

"John!" Sherlock jumped off the couch and ran frantically to his flatmate, crouching beside him and putting his chin on John's lap. He stared at him like a sad puppy.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" he asked, thanking God that Sherlock's mood swings were lately so predictable.

"I'm bored."

"Well, so what do you want to do?" John asked, knowing that otherwise Sherlock would never leave him alone.

"Something not boring."

"That's not really helpful." John scratched his head, searching for inspiration. "How about going to the cinema?"

"Dull."

"Okay, then. Restaurant?"

"Not hungry." He shook his head violently and then exclaimed with excitement, "Let's go on a date!"

"A date?" John echoed, not sure if he caught it correctly.

"It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun? Those were your exact words, John. Concentrate!" he snapped.

John felt that his urge to kill Sherlock was rising, but he managed to remain calm.

"People usually go on a date to the cinema or a restaurant," he explained patiently.

Sherlock looked extremely disappointed.

"Really?"

"Yes," John nodded half-heartedly, but then suddenly he got an idea. "How about bowling?"

Sherlock considered the proposition for a while. "I've never been bowling before."

"That's good! Maybe you'll like it." John smiled, rising from the armchair. "But first I'll have to cover that hickey with a sticking plaster, people might talk."

 

 

The nearest bowling alley was still relatively empty at such an early hour, but they decided it would be best just to share one line. Sherlock tried to appear unfazed and unimpressed, though his eyes curiously scanned the whole room. John actually felt a bit excited. It was nice just to go out together and not chase some criminals in the process.

"So basically you need to throw a ball so that it will knock over all the pins," John explained eagerly, but Sherlock gave him a condescending glance.

"John, I know the rules," he said, picking up the ball and weighting it for a while in his hands. "It's all about the right trajectory. I can calculate just the perfect route to strike all the pins in one professional move," he recited, self-confident as always.

"Well, shoot then. Show us, the ordinary folk, how real whizz works," John encouraged him with a smirk.

Sherlock huffed and decided to ignore the taunts. He concentrated, making all the necessary measurements in his head before he finally let the ball roll. But not everything went as planned. The ball didn't go as Sherlock wanted, but turned right and went around the pins just by a hair's breadth, not touching even one.

"This can't be..." he mumbled, surprised. "That's impossible! My calculations were perfect!" When the effects of shock wore off he threw a tantrum like a spoiled brat, much to John's amusement.

"Okay, champion. Now it's my turn," John said in an upbeat tone and picked up the ball. He was really enjoying himself and Sherlock's irritated grimace only made everything better. Even though John hadn't gone to the bowling alley for ages and felt a little rusty, he used to be very good at this during his university years. He hoped he still remembered how to do it.

He took a swing and threw the ball skillfully. It hit right at the centre, knocking all the pins over.

"Yes! A strike!" John whooped, throwing his arms in the air and looking at Sherlock with smugness. "Experience before brains!"

Sherlock glared at him and pouted. 

"Bowling is stupid," he said casually. "Come on, John. Let's abandon this awful place."

"Where do you want to go?"

"Out. As far from here as possible," Sherlock urged. John couldn't help but to giggle discreetly.

 

 

They were walking shoulder to shoulder on the empty street. John kept glancing surreptitiously at Sherlock's pale, slender hand standing out against his dark coat. He began to wonder whether he should take it or not. He really wanted to feel the man's warmth against his own skin, but he wasn't sure if Sherlock would approve.

"Yes, you can," Sherlock said out of the blue.

"What?" John asked in confusion.

"Yes, you can take my hand," he explained with an annoyed sigh. He hated to repeat himself.

"How did you...?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It doesn't take a genius, though I am one, to notice the look of perplexity on your face, inhibited glances directed at my hand, nervous flexing of your fingers and small movements of your wrists indicating you want to hold my hand. So I give you my permission to do it."

John's face turned red. He really hated when Sherlock did that, summing up all John's emotions into a few logical observations. He swallowed hard and hesitantly took Sherlock's hand, feeling really awkward. Sherlock didn't make it easy on him.

"Sherlock?" he mumbled, barely audible, not entirely sure he really wanted to bring up the issue.

"Yes?"

"I'm confused..."

"As to what, John?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"As to us," he confessed. "Are we even a couple?"

"Do you have doubts?" Sherlock clearly didn't comprehend what John meant.

"Yes, I do," he stated firmly. "Nothing has really changed between us since you threw in my face evidence that I love you. Okay, there are experiments taken from Cosmopolitan that you conduct on me, but that hardly counts."

Sherlock pondered about it for some time.

"Obviously, we are a couple. Why shouldn't we be? We go out, we talk, we bicker..." Apparently everything was that simple in Sherlock's world.

"Those things are done also by friends and not lovers..." He bit his tongue but it was already too late. Sherlock took notice of John's tone and phrasing. The consulting detective turned his head to his partner, staring at him intensively.

"You want more..."

"I... I don't really know what I want," he admitted, averting his gaze.

But such a feeble attempt to conceal the truth would never deceive Sherlock. He stopped walking and without any warning locked John in his embrace. He gazed into John's eyes, hoping he would understand, and leaned over to kiss him.

A soft and surprised moan escaped John's throat as he felt Sherlock's tongue inside his mouth. He pulled the man closer, kissing him back with all emotions he felt for him. He became dizzy, his legs barely holding up his weight.

When their lips finally separated, John was gasping for air and looking into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock smiled fondly and kissed him on the forehead.

"So are you sure now whether you're in love or not?" John whispered awkwardly, afraid to ruin the moment with a louder noise.

"Not really. Are my pupils dilated?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed with outrage, but his anger quickly changed into a lopsided smile when he realised that Sherlock was just teasing him.

"I am as sure as I can be, taking into account the complexity of the subject," the detective admitted softly, nuzzling his face against John's neck.


	4. Cinema Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The expert claims that the best date is a cinema date. Sherlock is keen to test this theory in practice. Jealousy, stealing and ridiculous amount of fluff ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text.

Many things can be said about Sherlock Holmes, but surely nobody would call him an expert in the fields of love and dating. Those subjects remained an unsolvable riddle to him, even though his friendship with Dr. Watson had changed not so long ago into something more. Sherlock, as always when in doubt, decided to consult a specialist for additional information. The paper specialist.

The detective was sprawled across the couch in a lazy pose, browsing intently through the newest issue of "Cosmopolitan". This had recently become a hobby of his, much to John's dismay, since he usually fell victim to Sherlock's experiments that were as romantic as they were eccentric.

The main topic of the magazine (apart from a guide on how to choose a fitting pair of high heels for your miniskirt) was how to win your crush's heart. According to the author of the article, the best way to do it was to go on an exciting date to the cinema. Sherlock found it really peculiar - movies always seemed really boring to him - but he didn't want to argue with an expert. He and John had gone on a date once to the bowling alley, but maybe it was time to try something more traditional. The moment the front door opened and John slowly entered the living room, wanting to properly say hello, Sherlock jumped off the sofa and stated in a peremptory tone:

"John, we're going to the cinema!"

"Excuse me?" John was so taken aback that he froze with one of his feet in mid-air.

"You heard me. I won't repeat myself." He grabbed John by the elbow and lead him downstairs without further ado.

John tried to protest, but all of his objections were promptly rejected. When Sherlock insisted on something, no power in the universe could change his mind.

"Why do you want to go to the cinema, anyway? You don't even like films!" John remarked astutely, trying another tactic. "Is this all about a case?"

"No, John. Quite the contrary. We're going on a date," he said matter-of-factly.

"A date?" John echoed, making a silly face. "Sherlock, that's..."

But Sherlock was fed up with John's whining. He shut him up with a fiery kiss and smiled winsomely.

"It'll be fun."

John sighed heavily, giving up. Arguing with Sherlock was pointless. He always had his way. Especially when he smiled like that, knowing perfectly well that John simply couldn't resist it.

 

 

It was the middle of the week and still relatively early, so there weren't many prospective viewers in the cinema. John had managed to leave work early today, hoping he could finally get some rest, maybe read a book or simply go to sleep. Unfortunately, Sherlock cared very little for other people's plans. John shot a swift glance at his partner, who was eyeing the "Now Showing" table. Well, at least John was never bored.

"I don't know anything about films, John," he admitted indifferently. None of the movie titles seemed familiar. "Pick something."

"Okay..." John began to read the list with more care. He stood so close to Sherlock that he felt the warmth of his body. They didn't hold hands, though. John was still reluctant to show his affections towards another man in public. When they were alone, not a problem. However, the presence of other people made him feel uneasy. Sherlock seemed to understand and respect that. Or, what was more probable, he simply didn't care. "We have here three rom-coms, they're out of the question, some war movie, a horror for teenagers and... oh, I didn't know it's still on!"

"What's on?" Sherlock asked blandly.

"'The Avengers'."

"What's that?"

"A superhero film. It's rather lowbrow and popcorn movie, but apparently quite palatable," John explained. Then he added an anecdote. "A famous British actor, Tom Hiddleston, is starring in it. You probably don't know that, but teenage girls are now totally mad about him. Not long ago we had one in our ward who came here all the way from Peru to stalk him and—“

"Fine, we can watch this." Sherlock interrupted him brusquely with a dismissive gesture. Apparently he wasn't interested in the adventures of some crazy fangirls.

John was used to being treated irreverently, so he wasn't offended, though probably he should have been. The doctor just sighed inwardly, begging whatever god was listening right now to grant him more patience, and stood in queue to get the tickets. Of course, it was John who had to buy them, even though Sherlock had invited - or rather ordered - him to the cinema. Still, his flatmate had a very particular talent to selectively forget his wallet.

While John was preoccupied with choosing the seats and pondering upon the advantages of each row, Sherlock was scanning the surrounding, trying to catch every vital detail. 'The Avengers' was a popcorn flick, right? Sherlock smirked as a daring idea appeared in his head. He headed off across the hall with feline grace.

John didn’t notice that he had been reciting a monologue until a whole two minutes passed. He was embarrassed as he took the tickets from the amused cashier - he could have sworn that the girl winked at him meaningfully - and started to look about in order to find his prodigal friend. A friend, that was what he still called Sherlock in his thoughts, even though they had been together as a couple for quite a while now. Old habits died hard.

The moment John spotted Sherlock, his blood pressure skyrocketed. The detective was lost in a conversation with some young man, who was sitting alone at the table. A young and quite handsome man, John noted with anger rising in his chest. Did Sherlock propose a date just to make his boyfriend jealous? If that was the case, the plan had succeeded perfectly. John gnashed his teeth and was about to lunge forward with foam at the mouth to fight for what was rightfully his when the young man stood up suddenly and stormed in the direction of the toilets, the look of fury on his face.

John was struck dumb, unable to comprehend what was happening. He decided to wait and see how the situation would develop. Aghast, John watched how Sherlock was following the man with his gaze, and when the guy disappeared around the corner, the detective nonchalantly snatched the untouched box of popcorn from the man's table. Holmes then turned to his lover, and when his gaze finally met John's, a smug smile crept onto his face. He reached insolently into the box and took a fistful of popcorn, placing it casually into his mouth while coming closer to John.

A choked giggle forced its way up from Watson's throat.

"You're simply incorrigible," he said with conviction, shaking his head slowly. "What did you say to that guy?" John asked, helping himself to some of the salty loot.

"Oh, I just pointed out that his girlfriend is cheating on him with a cinema employee in the toilet. Female cinema employee, to be exact." Sherlock grinned mischievously, taking another fistful. "I don't suppose he'd be thinking about his lost popcorn when he comes back, but let's go take our seats, shall we? Just to be safe."

Sherlock once again made John laugh breathlessly. Certainly, he was never bored with the world's only consulting detective.

 

 

Sherlock must have really liked the taste of stolen popcorn, because he wolfed everything down before the commercials had even ended. That was quite an unfortunate turn of events, since he started to make loud and snarky comments about the videos. The auditorium was almost empty  only a couple of teenagers sitting a few rows below them  but John still entreated Sherlock to be quiet, obviously to no avail. The detective always did what he wanted. John sighed with relief when the movie actually started. He hoped that Sherlock would be engrossed and interested enough to keep his mouth shut. And exactly that happened. At least for the next ten minutes.

After ten minutes of peering at the screen, finding three mistakes and deciding that the film was stupid and disregarded every known and unknown law of physics, Sherlock was bored to death. He peeped at John, who seemed to be riveted by the action taking place on the screen. Sherlock smelled a challenge here. Nothing could preoccupy John more than his boyfriend. Sherlock cast a furtive glance at his phone and then immediately put his hand on John's knee. That was only phase one of the plan, but it was quite satisfying to see John jump in his seat. Phase two, however, was crucial to the success of the whole operation. Sherlock's fingers slid to the inner part of John's thigh, where they began to move from his groin to his knee in a suggestive and provocative manner.

John became as red as a beetroot. He found it gradually harder to focus on the movie.

_Don't pay any attention to him, don't pay any attention_ , he repeated to himself several times, knowing that Sherlock was just teasing him. Obviously the detective had a different aim in mind than simply to make John feel pleasure. Easy to say, harder to do, though, since the doctor's brain slowly but surely started to abandon its duties as the organ responsible for thinking. John stifled the loud moan growing in his throat by joining lips with Sherlock. The detective kissed him back eagerly, at the same time producing the phone from his pocket.

"Three minutes, twenty seven seconds," he whispered in a scholarly tone when they parted.

"What?" John blinked a few times in genuine surprise.

"The time between the stimulus - my hand on your thigh - and the predicted response - a passionate snog," he explained smugly, clearly proud of himself and awaiting praise.

John made a sound that strangely resembled a growl. Yes, he had expected something like that from Sherlock. The detective invariably treated him like his own lab rat.

John turned to the screen once again, folding his arms on his chest and ignoring Sherlock ostentatiously, resentment rolling off him in waves. Nothing happened for a moment because the detective had to process the fact that he had done something a bit not good. His brows came together as if he were trying to make sense of it. Then he began to poke John's arm with his index finger. Next, he grabbed the doctor's elbow and tugged on it. Finally, he launched into a symphony of moans. Sherlock hated to be ignored and desperately begged for attention.

"John... John... John! I am sorry, okay? Really. John! Jooohn?"

John was only waiting for this. He turned his head towards Sherlock and said triumphantly:

"Two minutes, nineteen seconds." Seeing Sherlock's confused stare, he explained with a sneer, "The time between the stimulus - me taking an offence - and the predicted response - apologies and _Jooohning_. I won, Sherlock!"

Sherlock couldn't maintain a straight face and he burst out laughing, not paying any attention to the people who were shushing him.

"You've been counting seconds in your mind, you certainly must have made a mistake."

"Thanks for believing in me, Sherlock," he said sarcastically.

"Always at your service." Sherlock leaned closer, tangling his fingers in John's sandy hair. He started to kiss him slowly and John was gracious enough to repay the favour. Neither of them glanced even once at the screen until the movie ended.

When they were leaving the cinema, Sherlock tucked an arm around John's waist and smiled at him roguishly.

"I told you it would be fun!"

John, whose face was reddened, his eyes glistening and his lips puffy from kissing, couldn't agree more.


	5. Something to Talk About

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People talk, that's what they do. Gossips, mostly. When Sherlock gets tired of policemen's stupidity, he comes up with an idea how to give them something real to talk about. John won't like it, definitely...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text.

Six o'clock in the morning, Saturday. A call from Lestrade. _Yes, a case, come to Scotland Yard at once._

Sherlock hung up with excitement, John just groaned plaintively. Friday was hellish at the hospital and he definitely could use some rest. Watson was determined to sleep through the whole morning, no matter what. Sherlock didn't waste any time, though. He sprang out of the bed, already wide awake, and delved into his wardrobe, preparing clothes for that day.

"Come on, John! Don't dawdle! The adventure awaits!" Sherlock urged him in an upbeat tone.

John covered his head with the duvet, mumbling something incoherently about the place where Sherlock could put this adventure right now and how deep. The detective rolled his eyes.

"John, you are perfectly aware that I won't back off. You're coming with me whether you like it or not," he said adamantly, folding his arms across his chest. "After all, I'm completely lost without my blogger..." he added in a kinder voice, shamelessly buttering John up.

Another long and incoherent moan came from the general direction of the bed, but this time it ended with a hoarse, "Five minutes."

Sherlock sighed in annoyance, but knew that he had won. He might as well cut John some slack. So he left his friend alone and went to the bathroom to take a quick shower.

Getting up was far down on John's list of priorities right now, sleep occupying the first position, but he had no choice. Even though pouches under his eyes had pouches of their own, Sherlock would never let him laze about when a new case was just around the corner. Ever since they started to share a bedroom, and consequently a bed, they were spending so much time together, it became impossible for John to simply ignore Sherlock and pursue his own needs. But apart from situations like today, Watson honestly didn't mind. Their relationship was evolving, which made him happy. His only gripe was that they still hadn't gone the whole way. Every time he mentioned sex, Sherlock would freak out, so besides some cuddles and kisses, nothing really happened between them. It was a pity, but John was nothing if not patient. He believed Sherlock just needed some time to acquaint himself with the thought of being intimate with another person.

When John finally crawled out of the bed, Sherlock had already returned from the shower, looking fresh, energetic and handsome as ever. He was wearing his finest clothes – he only had the finest – as if his aim was to dress to kill. It always affected people who met him, John included. Every single time.

"John, we don't have a whole day!" he grumbled inexorably. All his gestures betrayed impatience. He simply couldn't wait to dive into another case.

"Yeah, yeah..." John suppressed a yawn and tottered to Sherlock, giving him a sweet good morning kiss on the lips. That didn't make Sherlock stop rushing his lover, but at least his expression softened and he was a bit more sympathetic towards the exhausted doctor. He even allowed John to drink a cup of coffee before they left, and his magnanimity was rewarded with yet another kiss.

 

 

When they arrived at the police station, Sherlock was nearly jumping from joy, whereas John was trying his best to appear relatively awake, which proved to be quite a challenge. Lestrade greeted them in the hallway and lead them to his office.

Sherlock was aware of the surreptitious glances that policemen were shooting at him and John. Probably a bunch of new juicy gossips about them were circulating among the staff during the periods of boredom. Most of the stories were brazenly made-up, but the truth was never really the point. The more shocking and disgusting the calumny, the better. Just like in the lowest of tabloids. The fact that nobody here had a liking for Sherlock, didn't help.

Frankly speaking, Sherlock couldn't care less what people were saying, even though occasionally some rumours were really slanderous and nasty, but he was aware that it upset John. The doctor always repeated that people should mind their own business and stop prying. Sherlock surmised that John still didn't fully accept his recently discovered sexual orientation (Sherlocksexual) and resisted being branded as gay with might and main. Sherlock didn't quite understand his attitude, but it was John's choice, so he didn't interfere.

Lestrade sat at his desk and picked up a file, handing it to John. Sherlock claimed that his first impressions about the case were the most accurate when his friend did the reading. If the case was worth it, Holmes later had a look at it himself. John sighed and began to recite as Sherlock leaned against the wall, pressing all his fingertips together in front of his face.

"Victim: Thomas Murray. Age: 34. Occupation: fisherman. The victim was found dead laying on his stomach with a massive head trauma..."

The more Sherlock heard, the less he was interested in the case. When John was in the middle of the report, Sherlock became convinced that it wasn't even a case. Why did the police have to be so stupid? The man obviously wasn't murdered, it was an accident involving a rusted crane, that was evident even without looking at the crime scene. Sherlock wanted to huff with anger at his wasted time, but it would mean interrupting John and he liked his voice far too much for that. So Sherlock stopped listening to the content of the message and focused only on John's timbre. He moved next to the opened door because in that way he could completely remove Lestrade from the picture and concentrate solely on his beautiful lover. Unfortunately, that position also had some disadvantages - Sherlock couldn't hear John anymore over the hum of gossips.

Sherlock involuntarily caught some of them. One policeman claimed to have witnessed Sherlock kissing some random man two days ago in a restaurant. Rubbish, obviously. The other person could have sworn that she had seen Watson on a date with one of his ex-girlfriends. That was also ridiculous, John's clothes didn't have the scent of a woman about them, Sherlock would certainly have noticed. The third interlocutor was convinced that Holmes and Watson were in fact an item and got at least to third base. Absolutely false, though John probably wouldn't mind if it was correct. The fourth person suggested that they couldn't possibly be together, because Sherlock had to have some “performance issues” which made the rest of the group laugh. Once again, not true. At least to Sherlock's best knowledge.

Finally, he rolled his eyes, getting tired of this bullshit. People talk, that's what they do. But what if instead of inventing lies, Sherlock for a change gave them something real to gossip about? A daring plan formed instantly in his head.

Sherlock strode out of the room, which caused John to stop the reading and stare at him in confusion. Lestrade also had no idea what was going on. Yet.

"May I have your attention, please?" Sherlock raised his voice and waited till all the conversations died out.

"John, could you come here for a moment?" Sherlock shouted from the hall full of police officers, who stopped whatever they were doing and peered at the detective uncomprehendingly. There was a chance that the freak would do something entertaining, so they were observing him in anticipation.

John furrowed his eyebrows, equally curious about what Sherlock was up to. Thinking it might have something to do with the new case, John came to him without any doubts. Little did he know what Sherlock really wanted to do.

When John approached him, Sherlock smirked, cupping the man's face with his hands and before Watson could protest, he pressed his lips against his lover's. And not only pressed, oh no. He made the kiss deep, fiery and so sensuous, that John moaned despite himself and went weak at the knees. He had never expected Sherlock to kiss quite like that.

Neither did anyone else. A perfect silence enveloped the room for a few heartbeats. Police officers were nearly paralysed, gawking at the kissing pair with bated breaths and looks of total shock on their faces. Paradoxically, Lestrade, who'd had his suspicions for a long time, looked the most dumbstruck. The scene seemed so surreal, he was just waiting to be woken up from this delusion by the buzz of an alarm clock.

When Sherlock finally let John go, the doctor was in worse mental shape than Lestrade. He was dazed, obviously, but also perplexed, breathless, and very embarrassed, with his face turning an alarming shade of red. John stared at Sherlock just like a sad puppy who was kicked by his beloved master and couldn't understand why. Sherlock, however, didn't pay any attention to him. Instead, he addressed the crowd.

"That's all for now, thank you for your attention." He inclined his head in parody of a bow. "John, you may recommence the reading now."

That was it. The straw that broke the camel's back. John was a kind, patient, and very understanding man, but he also had his limits. Sherlock had treated him like his own private lab rat one time too often, completely disregarding John's feelings. He just didn't care. Not one bit.

John was glaring daggers at Sherlock, his eyes filled with shame and reproach, as he hurled the file right under Holmes's feet. He didn't utter a single word, but rage was rolling off him in waves, when he went past Sherlock and stormed out of the building.

Sherlock was stupefied. He shot a puzzled glance at Lestrade, demanding some kind of explanation, but the inspector only spread his arms helplessly as if he wanted to say, “You screwed up, now go and fix it.” Sherlock ran after John without delay.

He caught up with his lover on the street, just metres away from the Yard. John was walking straight ahead, not casting even a brief glance at the detective, who was currently in the doctor's bad books. Sherlock had to grab his elbow to stop him and force him to acknowledge his presence.

"What's wrong, John?" he asked with genuine curiosity.

John stared at him incredulously. It was amazing how dumb this incredibly brilliant and perceptive man could occasionally be.

"You've humiliated me!" he blurted out so furiously that it almost drove Holmes back a step.

"How so?" Sherlock inquired.

John had to fight the urge to punch him in the face. Again.

"You've kissed me in front of the whole department!" He was smouldering with anger. Now everybody knew they were together. And they found out in the worst possible way.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"They were telling malicious and made-up gossips about us. Now they have something true to talk about for a change."

John scoffed with irritation. Sherlock didn't understand anything. Relying only on pure logic, he had no idea how people's emotions worked. Not everything could be explained by scientific deductions and that was the only language Sherlock understood. John didn't even try. There was no point, Sherlock was too clueless. The doctor said nothing, only eyed him with hostility.

Sherlock finally broke the silence when it became unbearable.

"What's so shameful about love?" His voice was calm and even.

That question caught John off guard. He blinked a few times in surprise, not knowing what to reply.

"I am not ashamed to show how important you are to me," Sherlock went on. "And people can point the finger at me, call me gay, faggot, queer, whatever they want. It won't change how I feel about you."

John couldn't utter a word. The lump in his throat was too big and his eyes began to sting. He hung his head, lowering his gaze in embarrassment. Maybe Sherlock understood more than John had realised.

The detective smiled warmly, locking John in his embrace. The doctor hugged him back hesitantly, nuzzling his face against Sherlock's neck.

"You know I love you. And I'm not ashamed to admit that," John whispered defensively. "It's just... It was far too ostentatious for my taste."

"I know. Maybe in retrospect the whole plan was... a bit not good," Sherlock confessed, feeling a well-deserved pang of guilt.

"Yeah, you prat. Quite a bit," John upbraided him, but the corners of his mouth edged up slightly. "Next time you're about to pull a stunt like that at least let me know beforehand, okay?"

"I will." Sherlock smiled and sealed the promise with a snog. They let the kiss envelop them completely, dragging the lovers from the reality into a warm world of their own. The people in the street were staring and the police officers were looking at them out of the windows but neither Sherlock nor John cared anymore. At least they gave the onlookers something to talk about for weeks to come.


	6. Clandestine Cuddles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone needs a hug every once in a while...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [ thatsaralacey](http://thatsaralacey.tumblr.com/) and to [ veuxpasyaller](http://veuxpasyaller.tumblr.com//) who helped me improve the text.

Living with the world's only consulting detective could, on most days, be classified as an extreme sport, but John Watson was used to it by now. He was pretty sure that Sherlock couldn't come up with any antic that would genuinely surprise or upset him. Yes, true, sometimes John had to yell at his flatmate to make him move the corpse from the shower, or not to store maggots inside the jar of strawberry jam, but since they had got together, Sherlock was being more compliant than ever. When Holmes grudgingly threw away his experiment involving tarantula's eggs and ham just because John politely asked him to, the doctor realised just how much he meant to his eccentric boyfriend. That was more touching than any kiss or mushy confession of undying love.

And yet, even after dating for the last few months, Sherlock was still full of secrets. The man had so many layers; he had erected so many barriers to protect himself throughout the years that John was sure that he had only seen a fraction of Sherlock's true self. Still, John was nothing if not patient. He believed that sooner or later he'd figure Sherlock out. It just so happened that such an occasion occurred sooner than he anticipated.

It was another lazy afternoon; they hadn’t had a case in almost a week. Sherlock was wreaking havoc in the kitchen, conducting some sort of a bizarre experiment to kill the ennui, and John was slouching in his armchair whilst reading the paper Mrs Hudson had generously provided that morning. It was actually refreshing to just sit and do nothing. He wasn't able to enjoy himself for long, though. 

Without any warning, John felt the weight of 170 pounds crushing his thighs. He gasped in shock and lowered the paper, only to find himself almost nose to nose with Sherlock, who was staring at him intently.

"Sherlock, what the-?"

"Hold this," Sherlock said brusquely, shoving a test tube into John's hand. The doctor eyed it suspiciously, as it was half-filled with a strange-looking liquid that had the consistency of milk.

"What's that?"

"A fluid essential to my research," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly; he remained deaf to any attempts to coax him into elaborating on the matter. He was just sitting motionlessly straddling John's knees with his cheek on John's shoulder, his piercing gaze transfixed on the tube.

John sighed, giving up. He let Sherlock do whatever he wanted to do, just like he did most of the time. Not knowing what to do with his other hand, John simply put it on Sherlock's back. He could have sworn that a shadow of a content smile flickered across his companion’s face.

After what seemed like millennia, but objectively couldn't have been longer than a few minutes, Sherlock suddenly took the tube away and walked back into the kitchen, offering no explanation whatsoever.

John shot him a quizzical glance, but seeing that Sherlock didn't pay any attention to him and was seemingly lost in his own world of science, the doctor finally shrugged his shoulders and returned to reading. Who could have guessed what was going on inside that brilliant mind anyway?

John was just finishing an article on some brave firefighter who saved a pregnant cat from conflagration when he felt Sherlock's bony bottom pressing against his thighs yet again. 

"Which one is brighter?" The man asked in a deadpan voice, brandishing two strips of blue material in front of John's face. John nearly crossed his eyes before he pushed Sherlock's hands away to get some perspective.

"I don't know, they look the same." John let out an exasperated sigh, glaring at Sherlock. What the hell had got into him today?

"Are you sure, John? This is very important, take your time and decide," Sherlock said evenly, his mercurial eyes glistening with apparent curiosity as he rested his head on John's chest.

John sighed again. He couldn't resist Sherlock, and the man was mercilessly taking advantage of that. The doctor spent the next few minutes peering intently at the two strips of fabric, still convinced that they looked absolutely the same.

"I don't know, this one maybe?" He pointed to the smaller stripe without much certainty in his voice. "Why are you even asking me, your senses are much sharper than mine!" John blurted out, but the only response he got was Sherlock leaving his lap with a dramatic swish of his dressing gown.

John rolled his eyes. Whatever. His boyfriend was an oddball. Sometimes John thought he deserved a medal for being around him for so long and staying relatively sane.

The sulking didn't last long, since Sherlock had apparently no intention of leaving him alone. He kept returning to John in short intervals, always sitting down on his lap, pressing his head to his collarbone, and asking some ridiculous things: "Where is my mould collection? Think hard John, you must have moved it inadvertently", "I have found this red hair on my coat. Do you have any idea whose it might be? Don't rush it, take your time", "This curious representative of the blatella germanica species just crawled out from under the fridge. Can you see the pattern on his hind legs? Take a closer look..."

John was at the end of his tether but did his best to remain calm and understanding, putting up with all of this behaviour like a saint. However, when Sherlock approached him yet again, squishing John's thighs and leaning his head against his chest, and once again asked something random and ridiculous, John lost his temper and hurled the newspaper on the floor.

"For God's sake, if you disturb me once again with your dumb--" John trailed off, tilting his head slightly as the penny finally dropped. Now everything clicked in place. Sherlock's experiments were particularly idiotic today; he never dabbled in anything like that. There had to be another reason for his strange behaviour, and John believed he had figured it out. In hindsight, everything Sherlock had done sounded like a flimsy pretext to get closer. The doctor didn't confront Sherlock, though, knowing how proud his lover was. 

"Actually, ignore what I've said, Sherlock. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout. In fact, I have a favour to ask," John announced in a softer tone, his hands resting on Sherlock's arms, holding him in place.

"What's that?" The detective squinted his eyes, oblivious to what John was up to. 

"I've never told you before, but I'm quite the romantic type deep down. Sometimes I feel this overwhelming urge to hug you. Will it be okay if I cuddle with you from time to time?"

The look of perplexity on Sherlock's face was priceless. The way he tried to remain impassive and collected while his eyes glistened with true happiness was quite adorable.

"That's just silly and illogical, John..." He had to say to maintain his ego. 

"I know. I'm an old sap, you’ll have to forgive me."

Sherlock huffed, but didn't protest when John's arms surrounded him and pulled into a tight hug. He actually buried his face in John's neck and purred softly when the doctor's hands stroked his back tenderly, nearly melting into him. 

When John decided that he had remedied Sherlock's hug deprivation, he leaned to kiss his boyfriend's nose.

"Thank you for indulging me, Sherlock."

The detective's smile was a little bashful, but John simply kissed him again, silencing any wan protests. 

The strange experiments ended, and Sherlock was back to pestering Lestrade with texts. However, when a few hours later Sherlock asked superciliously if John had an urge to hug him again, the doctor confirmed with a kind nod. Sherlock was gracious enough to satisfy John's needs, and cuddled him tightly for the rest of the evening.


	7. Lost in Translation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lack of communication can bring about a disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) (thanks for the plot advice!), [paintingdeserts](http://paintingdeserts.tumblr.com/) and [kittykat5742](http://kittykat5742.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text.

Among the many recent cases and the enticing thrill of danger they brought, John barely had time to take a break and ponder on his relationship with Sherlock Holmes. When he finally got around to doing it, however, in the rare moments of peace, he unfailingly got confused. 

It was nearly a year – how quickly it passed! - since the drunken kissing incident that began everything, and John didn't doubt even for a second that Sherlock in fact loved him deeply. The younger Holmes wasn't usually the most effusive person on the planet when it came to expressing emotions or affections, but he could be sweet and caring in his own eccentric way. John truly appreciated that and learnt to think fondly of all his mad genius's quirks, his ill-timing included – a deep smooch in the worst possible circumstances or demanding in an oblique fashion to be hugged when John was especially busy. John didn't mind too much, though. The satisfaction of being the person that the world's only consulting detective had chosen as his partner was quite rewarding. And yet after nearly a year of cuddling, snogging, and sharing a bed, Sherlock didn't seem to want anything more beyond that.

John kept testing the waters on many occasions. He dropped hints, he tried to seduce him, he fantasised aloud, he complimented his boyfriend's body in a very straightforward way. Still, Sherlock miraculously remained oblivious to all the flirting, bleaching all sexual content out of his life. It was as if sex didn't have admittance into his logical world. A real innocent virgin, it seemed. Maybe it would have been cute if it weren't so infuriating. 

Once, during a particularly promising but still rather chaste make out session in bed, John, thinking that maybe the detective was just shy and inhibited and needed some encouragement, slipped his hand inside Sherlock's pyjama pants and fondled a bit his half-hard penis. That turned out to be a disastrous mistake. Sherlock violently pushed him away and bolted to the living room in panic. For a whole week after this regrettable misstep, he slept on the couch and stubbornly ignored John, no matter how long and ardently the doctor kept reiterating that he was sorry and promised that it would never happen again. The hatchet had been unexpectedly buried one night when Sherlock slid under the covers and spooned John until the morning lights. Finally the apologies were accepted and they didn't speak about it ever again. Obviously, after that occurrence John abandoned all efforts to deepen their relationship. One time was bad enough and he didn't want to lose Sherlock for good. 

It hadn't been easy but John began to begrudgingly accept the fact that his lover was indeed asexual and they would never consummate their union the way he wanted. Without any meaningful form of release, he couldn't help getting gradually more and more sexually frustrated, which he tried to remedy with long masturbation marathons in the shower. What might have worked for a horny teenager didn't bring satisfying results for an adult man, though. Still, there was nothing else he could do without betraying Sherlock's trust one way or another, so John kept to himself, concealing his needs and urges the best he could. 

Sherlock wasn't called the most perceptive man for nothing. He noticed every alternation in John's behaviour, for instance how often he was now making a fuss about the most irrelevant issues. At first the detective couldn't figure out the reason behind this sudden change from Dr Jekyll to Mr Hyde, so he did what he did best: observed and deduced. The increased number of poorly hidden pornographic films stashed on John's laptop, as well as the fact that he was spending more time in the bathroom, were significant clues. As soon as Sherlock became aware of John's struggle with his corporeality, he couldn't help but feel guilty deep down, even though his rational mind was telling him how illogical that was. He didn't want to sleep with John and being asexual wasn't his fault or conscious choice, but his refusal had its consequences nonetheless. Sherlock mulled over the problem long and hard and arrived at the only logical conclusion. By being with him, John was making a sacrifice, which equalled John being unhappy. And unhappy John could leave him and maybe even move out from Baker Street! That thought terrified Sherlock. No, he couldn't let that happen! Never! He couldn't end up all alone and lose John to someone more eager to spread their legs. The detective needed to find a satisfying solution to keep John content. Preferably without having to taint his own body in the process. 

 

* * * 

 

A few days had passed since Sherlock commenced his operation. John maybe wasn't a genius like his flatmate, but he wasn't stupid either. Something was wrong with his boyfriend. He seemed... subdued, listless and detached, mooning around the flat without any purpose. He didn't have enough energy to conduct his experiments or even pester Lestrade about the new cases. And yet, despite that, he always made sure that John had a nice cuppa ready when he woke up, the laundry was always sorted and the kitchen was spotlessly clean, probably for the first time in its history. Basically, he eliminated everything that usually upset John and triggered quarrels. He didn't even complain like he used to when the doctor was coming home late from his shift; he just stared at the doctor sadly and scurried away. John got seriously worried, fearing that perhaps Sherlock was ill. But when he wrapped his arms tenderly around his boyfriend's waist and asked him if everything was fine, the detective assured him promptly that yes, everything was great, and then ran off to buy milk so fast it was as if the hellhounds were on his trail. 

John was left completely in the dark about what was going on; he couldn't squeeze even a word of explanation from Sherlock. Moreover, the detective seemed to be doing everything in his power to avoid any physical contact. That was very odd, since he normally enjoyed snuggling or having his curls tousled. Was he still mad about that misunderstanding from before? But John was sure he had been forgiven! The unnerving atmosphere permeated the flat for the next couple of days. Even Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade detected tension between the lovers, but neither of them wanted to pry and make things worse. 

After a week of tedious ordeals consisting of cleaning, tea-making, and bringing home the shopping, Sherlock had to admit that his method wasn't working. Despite his best efforts, John didn't seem to feel any happier or relaxed. He could still leave at any moment. Sherlock sighed inwardly. There was only one option left to ensure that John would stay, even though Sherlock dreaded having to resort to it. Tough, he had no other choice. Well, the end justifies the means. How bad could coitus be, really? Ordinary people had sex all the time and apparently enjoyed it a lot. Actually, the whole world seemed to revolve around copulation. If that was what John wanted, Sherlock had to force himself to deliver. 

“John,” he stated impassively one afternoon, reclining on a couch, his attention seemingly focused on the phone in his hand.

“Yes?” The doctor lowered the paper he was reading in his armchair to cast a surprised glance at his partner. It was the first time since Sherlock turned into a perfect hausfrau that he initiated a conversation. John felt his heart thrum. Maybe he'd be able to finally find the reason behind his flatmate's insanity. Oh God, let him be all right... 

“Let's have sex.” Sherlock dropped the bomb without as much as batting an eyelid. He wasn't even looking at John, though surely out of the corner of his eye he must have noticed what effect his words had on his flatmate.

John was positively aghast. He expected virtually everything – anything painful or gruesome he could only imagine – but not this, certainly not anything like this. He folded the paper and put it in his lap.

“Like... now?” he asked haltingly.

Sherlock flinched visibly.

“No!” he voiced his protest, but realised it was too harsh. He cleared his throat and tried again. “No. Not right now. I believe that a week from now is a reasonable date. We'll have a romantic dinner and then proceed to the bedroom where you'll be able to take me however you want and how many times you want.”

John had to readjust the newspaper because his cock throbbed with interest against his will. Sometimes he hated biology and involuntary responses. 

“Are you sure, Sherlock? That's quite sudden and you weren't particularly keen before...” John pointed out resolutely. He had dreamt about being intimate with Sherlock more times than he could count, but something was seriously not right here. Besides, planning sex a week in advance seemed a really bizarre thing to do. 

Sherlock, as always, took umbrage at being doubted.

“Of course I am sure! Don't be an idiot. If I weren't sure I wouldn't have proposed this,” Sherlock lied with a flippant air of condescension. 

Faced with such resistance, John didn't reply. Still, he was full of misgivings, which the next week only confirmed. Sherlock stopped with all the house chores and returned to science; he seemingly appeared to be his usual self. However, John knew him too well to get fooled. He saw right through the façade, noting how nervous and dispirited Sherlock truly felt. 

The little things gave it away: the way his whole body tensed when John approached him, the fact that four test tubes slipped from his fingers and smashed to pieces on the floor, and his voice when he spoke with Lestrade on the phone, snarling at him without any particular reason. John was getting more and more worried, really worried, but whenever he tried to talk about the elephant in the room, Sherlock insisted that everything was fantastic and bailed out from home under some flimsy pretext. The doctor wished there was a way to help him somehow. He searched for it incessantly and in the end stumbled upon an unexpected help, not entirely sure he should accept it.

Finally, the fateful day came. Knowing full well how difficult everything must be for Sherlock, John vowed to make the event as pleasant to the detective as possible. He aimed to shower his lover with affection and kept assuring him all the time that there was no reason to be nervous and they could stop at any moment. Since morning he was nothing if not loving and caring. He woke up earlier just to prepare a nice tea for Sherlock, just like he liked it. Knowing that the man's neck must be sore from hunching over a microscope, John gave him a massage where the pressure of his hands was intertwined with feather-light kisses. Sherlock protested at first and tried to escape like he used to recently, but soon became pliant under John's skilful touch. The doctor was full of sympathy. He could feel how starved for attention the man was after depriving himself of it for the last couple of days. 

Without any warning, Sherlock shifted and threw his arms around John's neck. He was shivering, clearly terrified out of his mind, and looking like a sad puppy awaiting a heavy scolding. 

“We don't have to do this, Sherlock. Really. I hate to see you like this. I understand if you're not ready,” John said softly, kissing his temple. Sherlock hummed and closed his eyes, but his resolve was strong.

“John, I _am_ ready. I'm not a child, I know what I'm doing,” he stated stubbornly and extricated himself from his lover's grasp. 

John sighed inwardly. It would be a long day...

He was right. The hours passed slowly, filled with waiting and doubts, but the dreaded evening finally came. John felt bad about everything. Against his will he was put in the position of a torturer of an innocent soul, even though hurting Sherlock was something he wanted to avoid at any cost. Well, maybe it wouldn't be that bad? Perhaps there was a chance that they both could enjoy the intimacy that the sex brought. Maybe in the end Sherlock wasn't asexual and would like it at least a little. 

John prepared dinner as planned. He wasn't a particularly skilled chef, but he did his best when he made chicken curry, the dish Sherlock ate with pleasure. He put the plates and the cutlery on the fresh tablecloth spread over the scrubbed clean table in the living room and he lit a candle. More romantic that way. A bit of an inside joke between them, which Sherlock noticed and commented on with a wan smile. 

They sat in heavy and awkward silence, casting surreptitious glances at one another. John's stomach churned and he barely nibbled at his food, feeling apprehensive. It wasn't supposed to be like this, it should be all about love. Sherlock only dabbed the plate with his fork, not even pretending that he was actually eating.

“Are you really sure about this, Sherlock?” John asked for the umpteenth time, seeing the stony and determined expression on his partner's face as if he was bracing himself for a death sentence. When the detective nodded curtly his assent, too afraid that his voice may crack if he tried speaking, John saw fear and torment in his eyes. What a pigheaded idiot! That was unbearable. Up to this point the doctor still had his doubts, but he made his decision. He had to do it. For Sherlock.

John stood up and paced slowly to Sherlock, sitting in his lap. Despite the terror on the man's face, he cupped his cheek with his hand and spoke in a soothing tone.

“If you really want to do this, let's have a drink first. It will help you relax, love,” John whispered tenderly and kissed his lips, conveying that there was nothing to worry about. When Sherlock agreed hesitantly, John kissed him again and went back into the kitchen. There was a sound of a bottle being popped open, a bit of rustle and soft clinking of glass. 

Soon enough John emerged from the kitchen, holding two elegant wine glasses. He sat down, put one of them in front of Sherlock and smiled encouragingly. 

“I want to propose a toast,” he spoke in a solemn tone, but with warm sparks in his blue eyes. 

Sherlock wasn't really in a mood for such folly, but he decided to humour his lover. After all, this whole endeavour was for his sake and to ensure his staying at Baker Street. Sherlock picked the glass up and waited.

“A toast... to us, Sherlock. Call me a sentimental sap, but I believe - I really believe - that everything will be fine as long as we love each other.”

The corner of Sherlock's lips twitched. Yes, that was very sentimental and quite silly, but somehow he felt infinitesimally better. John's words were like a balm pouring over his restless heart. He raised his glass to clink it against John's and then gulped down the whole drink to give himself some Dutch courage.

They stared at each other in silence God knows how long. The meal was over. It was time to move to the bedroom, but neither of them even flinched. John was motionless, the look of expectancy on his face, as he fixed his eyes on Sherlock. 

Sherlock felt uncomfortable under this scrutiny. No, maybe not exactly uncomfortable. Weird. Feverish. Yes, feverish. He frowned, moving his hand to his sweaty temple and feeling his rapid pulse. More rapid than it should have been. His thoughts were jumbled together and he could hardly arrive at any coherent conclusion as to his current state. His whole body seemed to be on fire. What an odd sensation!

“It's so hot in here...” he slurred, fanning his face with his hand. That didn't bring nearly enough relief, so he used his other hand to slowly unbutton his shirt. When his fingers brushed his skin accidentally, a broken moan escaped his throat. Since when had he become so sensitive?

“Sherlock, are you okay?” John asked in a tensed voice. His face resembled a mask of worry and regret.

“Fine. I'm absoslu... absolutely fine...” he spluttered incoherently as he stood up despite his knees getting wobbly. One step to the left and Sherlock tripped, speeding up to meet the carpet face first.

“God, Sherlock!” John gasped and sprang up to his feet, ready to help him any way he could. The detective giggled and sat up slowly despite the fact that the whole room was spinning out of control. As he focused his gaze at John, his skin was flushed and his eyes were dark and blown. Dark, blown and filled with an emotion that never appeared there before – lust.

“John, you're gorgeous...” he purred like a cat in heat, tugging at his flatmate's hand forcefully. John was completely caught off guard. He didn't even know when he landed hopelessly on the floor, observing in bewilderment how Sherlock lunged forward at him in one quick motion. He felt that lithe body pressing on him, the growing bulge in Sherlock's trousers rutting against his hip. He couldn't help but gasp when the detective's tongue invaded his mouth forcefully.

“John, John! Take me, please,” he whimpered pleadingly, his hot breath on John's moist lips, grinding his hips with feral desperation to get as much friction as possible. 

The doctor wanted nothing more than to grant his wish. He had been craving this for so long it nearly seemed like a dream come true. To feel Sherlock's smooth skin under his fingertips, to hear him moan in bliss, to smell on his neck that expensive cologne of his. It would take a far better man than John could ever be to resist such a temptation. He would have given in to his wildest desire if it weren't for the blank look in Sherlock's normally bright and brilliant eyes. 

That was a wake-up call; John snapped out of it. No, it was wrong. Horribly wrong! If Sherlock had been in his right mind, he would have never wanted this. And John didn't want that either. Not like this. Not taking advantage of the man he loved.

His strength wasn't as good as it used to be, but thankfully he managed to roll them over and straddled Sherlock's hips, pinning his hands to the floor on both sides of the man's curly head. 

“Mhm... eager...” The detective cooed, smirking expectantly. John had to disappoint him.

“No, Sherlock. It's wrong. You don't really want this, trust me. I won't do it.”

John's words weren't to Sherlock's liking, not at all. He howled like a wounded animal, struggling to free himself from his lover's grasp. How dare he deny him what he longed for so much?

“What? No! You have to! Fuck me, John! You've always wanted that!” he yelled in fiery desperation, the newly found lust burning in his veins. 

John swallowed thickly, feeling the heat in his stomach migrating south. Damn. 

“Yes. But you don't. Not really.”

The detective was at the end of his tether. He cursed foully, he begged, he whined, he sobbed, he tried to provoke John, but to no avail. The more he squirmed and implored, the more adamant John was, even thought the need was driving him insane. He had to turn into a marble statue, not yielding despite all Sherlock's ministrations. 

Finally, Sherlock's madness began to weaken and his frenzy ebbed. He turned white as a sheet and dark circles rimmed his blood-shot eyes. Mumbling under his breath about feeling nauseous, Sherlock passed out. 

John, despite himself, let out a small sigh of relief. He wasn't sure how long he would have lasted. He slid from his lover's limp body and with some difficulty carried him to the bedroom.

 

* * * 

 

When Sherlock woke up several hours later, it was morning already. He parted his sticky eyelids only to find out that he was in bed, covered with a blanket up to his chin. A pained groan squeezed through his parched throat. The pounding in his head was insufferable. 

“How are you feeling?” A voice full of sympathy came from his side. He shifted his gaze and noticed John, who looked as if he hadn't slept the whole night, sitting on a chair beside the bed. He had a glass of water in his hand, which he promptly passed to Sherlock. 

“As if a truck ran me over. Twice...” he replied sincerely as he propped himself up on an elbow and sipped the liquid slowly. Ah, better. His thoughts began to gain some clarity for a change. His faculties were slowly tuning up, but even without his whole mental potential at work it wasn't difficult to see the uncomfortable look on John's face.

“You need to drink a lot and you'll be fine. There won't be any permanent damage. I'm sorry, Sherlock. It wasn't supposed to end like this...” he confessed contritely, his eyes lowered to the floor in shame and guilt. 

The detective quirked an eyebrow, putting the empty glass on the bedside table. Analysing everything that had happened, all his symptoms and deviation from his normal behaviour, as well as John's admonition, there was only one conclusion that could be drawn.

“The wine! You drugged me!” Sherlock exclaimed, hardly believing it. He felt betrayed. True, he had once tried to poison John, but firstly, it was all for science; secondly, they weren't a couple back then. 

“I didn't want to!” John defended himself weakly. “I mean, I _wanted_ to, but I didn't know it would be like this!” 

“Explain,” Sherlock muttered coldly through his teeth. He felt he was entitled to be angry.

John heaved a sigh and began his tale.

“I noticed how you behaved for the past week. You were scared stiff of having sex and don't even try to deny it. I tried to talk to you, but you were too stubborn to admit it and yet for some reason you really wanted to go through with it. I certainly didn't want to end up raping you. Yes, raping. Sex without true consent is rape, you know? You put me in an awful position, Sherlock. I didn't know what to do. When I went out for a pint with some of my colleagues from work - you've ignored and avoided me so much that you didn't even notice I was gone – I had a bit too much and... well, I told Mark about my dilemma. He promised to help. And he did. He brought me a drug and told me it was absolutely safe and I should slip it inside your drink. It was supposed to knock you out for a few hours. I thought that since you couldn't be persuaded against having sex, maybe it would at least abate your resolve and force you to actually talk with me. I was desperate, really, since you kept pushing me away and lied that everything was fine. But you know yourself what the drug really did. I had no idea it was a strong aphrodisiac,” John sighed again, raking his hand through his hair in a tired gesture. “I fucked up, Sherlock. I'm really sorry.”

After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Sherlock stated simply, but without much resentment: 

“You're an idiot, John.” 

“I know.”

Sherlock huffed. He was miffed, but the blame wasn't entirely on John. The lack of communication between them played a huge factor here as well. Sherlock honestly had it coming. And after all, John had good intentions. John thought he was doing the right thing. Yes, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, but Sherlock appreciated it nonetheless, just as he appreciated another thing.

“John...” he started, twiddling his thumbs nervously. His voice was strained as if he had troubles finding words. “Thank you for not taking advantage of my... condition. It would have been... not good. You were right – I wasn't ready.”

“I know, Sherlock. I would have never forgiven myself if I did it,” he said softly, putting his hand over his lover's. Then he added in a lighter tone, wanting to cheer him up. “Though it was really close, you're one hell of a sexy bastard.”

The compliment didn't bring about the desired response. Sherlock tensed visibly. 

“John... I-I tried. Believe me. But... I don't think I'll be able to do this, this _sex_ thing,” he whispered with uncharacteristic openness. When their gazes met, Sherlock seemed vulnerable and devastated. It shocked John - usually the man was so good at concealing his true emotions, masking them with haughtiness and condescension. The detective turned his head away, unable to look John in the eyes. “It will be perfectly logical and understandable if you decide to end our relationship.”

John was speechless. So that was the reason behind Sherlock's strange behaviour and sudden urge to have sex? He was afraid that John would leave him if he didn't offer him his body?

“Sherlock, you big dummy,” he said so tenderly, Sherlock had no other choice but to look at him in bafflement.

John only smiled, squeezing his hand. 

“Sherlock, I'm not with you because I want to get inside your pants. You're brilliant, amazing, and fantastic. I like being around you, spending my time with you, solving crimes with you. I love you, Sherlock. Always had, always will. Yeah, sex is nice, but it's only an addition. If you don't want to do it, fine. I can live with that. I'd rather not have sex at all than not have you.”

Sherlock didn't know what to say. His eyes began stinging, so he had to blink quickly a few times to get rid of the treacherous tears forming there.

“John...”

“Oh, come here...” John sat on the bed and pulled him into a tight hug. Sherlock buried his face in the crook of John's neck, inhaling his comforting scent. Scent that smelled like home.

“I'll figure something out. I promise.”

“All right.” John pecked his cheek lovingly and chuckled. “But not today. I guess you had enough sex for quite some time.”

“Yes, that's true...” He reciprocated the smile shyly.

“And don't hide anything from me. Please. Talk to me about everything that troubles you. We both make mistakes when we don't speak honestly with each other,” John insisted. The detective had no other option but to agree. John smiled, reassured. “Go back to sleep. You need some rest. I'll be watching over you.”

Sherlock had a better idea, though. 

“No, John. Don't take it personally, but you look awful. We can sleep together. _Just_ sleep,” he added, shifting back and lifting the blanket in an inviting gesture. John didn't hesitate long. He slid beside Sherlock and snuggled to him close. 

“I love you, Sherlock.”

“I know. You expressed it in every possible variant of the English language.”

“Oh shut up, you berk.”

“...John?”

“Mhm?”

“I love you too.”

Five minutes later the only sound that could be heard in 221b Baker Street was the steady rhythm of intertwined breaths and two hearts beating together in perfect harmony.


	8. Sex Is Not the Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's possible to make it work with some effort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text.

It was a long and exhausting day at the hospital, so when John finally got home, he was knackered. He decided to quickly grab something to eat, take a shower and then make a beeline for the bed. Sherlock merely greeted him with a blank nod as he was hunched over John's laptop in his armchair, clearly absorbed in some research. Again. The doctor didn't even try to chide him for hacking his password again. He knew better than to waste his breath on a lost cause. 

Once in bed, John couldn't fall asleep despite his best efforts. He was tossing and turning, huffing and puffing, swearing and muttering, for quite some time before he finally realised the futility of his efforts. Admitting defeat, he turned on the light on his bedside table and reached for the crime novel he had abandoned days ago after Sherlock had divulged to him who the murdered was (“the niece, obviously. She had a motive and opportunity.”). Even so, reading while reclining on a pillow, covered up to his chest with a duvet, seemed like a better idea than lying wakeful in bed and staring blankly at the ceiling. 

An hour or so later, Sherlock finally graced John with his presence. 

_Damn, he really is attractive_ , John thought to himself as he saw his boyfriend entering the bedroom with unaffected grace. He continued to read in spite of the obvious distraction, though his eyes flickered from the pages to his partner more times than he could count or cared to admit. 

When Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it nonchalantly on the chair, John gave up on any pretence. After all, Sherlock must have been perfectly aware that John was gawking. Neither of them had said anything, though. The consulting detective stripped to his underwear and walked casually to the bathroom, scooping up his blue pyjamas on the way.

John let out a long breath he hadn’t known he was holding until that moment. It should be illegal to be this gorgeous without wanting to shag. Mother Nature's cruellest joke. At this point John had abandoned all hope that Sherlock's attitude would change in time. After all, the detective had made it perfectly clear that he was asexual and completely disinterested in any carnal pleasures. The attempt to change and remedy that fact almost ended up in a catastrophe not longer than a week ago. The event was still fresh in the doctor's memory; it was painful and heart-wrenching to see Sherlock suffer and go against his own nature for his lover's sake, so John vowed to himself never to bring up the issue of sex again. 

It was difficult, though. Very much so, since every time he saw a patch of skin on Sherlock's thighs or chest he got a raging boner.

_Fuck_.

John groaned in exasperation, putting the book away. As if he could concentrate on the letters right now. His gaze travelled to the matted glass door of the bathroom. He couldn't see much from the spot he was in, but if he moved just a bit or stood up and paced closer to the entrance, he would have seen the lean silhouette of his boyfriend, who paced around the bathroom, kicking his pants down and heading to the shower. The gentle hiss of water rang through the room.

John's imagination ran wild. He could easily picture Sherlock touching his own body, letting the streams of water caress every curve of his lithe frame; Sherlock washing his silky skin with those deft fingers covered in suds, leaving pale lather smudges on his chest. Maybe he slid that slippery hand to his groin and rubbed his dick from the slit down to the base, trailing along the pulsing vein and...

_Fuck, fuck, fuck!_

John groaned again, more desperately this time, and rolled to his side, staring intently at the wall in front of him. He really shouldn't be thinking about Sherlock in that way. After all, he had learnt it the hard way that his boyfriend wasn't interested in any forms of physical intimacy. John eventually accepted that fact but still bemoaned it rather frequently, especially in situations like these. He breathed through his mouth, nearly choking on his pent-up frustration. Through the fabric of his pyjama pants, he gave his fully erect cock a light squeeze. He shuddered, enjoying the feeling. 

Maybe he should just wank it off quickly and go to sleep? No, he discarded that idea without a second thought, despite the temptation. Sherlock would deduce instantly what had happened and John wanted to spare him feeling uneasy. They hadn't discussed any sexual themes since last week and it would be best if it stayed that way. It seemed John had no other choice but to ignore the pressure in his pants as much as he could, praying that the relief only sleep could bring would come soon.

He heard the bathroom door open and Sherlock's footfall as he approached the bed. Rustling of the sheets and a soft squeak of the mattress were the indicators that he decided to have his rest; the detective shifted closer, draping an arm around John's waist and snuggling close to him from behind. The man's hand rested on John's warm stomach, stroking it tenderly in a mesmerising manner. 

The doctor couldn't help but to sigh quietly. It was nice having Sherlock so close, but he wanted, _he needed_ , more. If only that hand would move down a bit!

“John?” A hesitant voice rang in his ear. 

“Yes, Sherlock?” He answered without turning around to face his lover, who held him tight in place. Besides, he enjoyed the embrace and felt too lazy to change his position anyway.

“I... I've been thinking recently...” The detective started hesitantly. John just couldn't stop his sarcastic self, which was fuelled now additionally by his frustration. 

“Well, that's something new...” 

He grew to regret those words when Sherlock bit angrily on his shoulder as punishment for interrupting him.

“Ouch! Sorry, go on...”

Sherlock was silent for a moment as if debating whether to continue or not. He nuzzled his face against John's neck and gazed upwards absent-mindedly at the beginning of stubble on the man's jaw. Finally he broke the silence.

“John, I've been selfish. For that, I am sorry.”

“Oh.” That was the only thing John was capable of saying as the shock rendered him almost speechless. Sherlock apologising for being selfish? Well, that certainly didn't happen often. Before he could start worrying properly, Sherlock spoke again.

“I was concerned only with my own needs, disregarding yours. That's not how a relationship should work. Taking into account the nature of our liaison, we both need to make concessions. I understand that now and I want to make it up to you. I've been doing some extensive research to find an answer to the question about what to do in our situation to please both sides, and I believe I've arrived at the solution,” Sherlock whispered in a low voice, brushing the shell of John's ear with his supple lips. A shiver ran down the doctor's spine. 

His fantasies were coming true. Sherlock's hand indeed moved, slipping right under his pyjama top and caressed his chest delicately as if the man was a fragile creature made of glass, easy to break and destroy. John's breath hitched as he melted under the touch, revelling in the way the detective's thumb circled his perky nipple. When pinched lightly, John bucked his hips instinctively. Sherlock must have enjoyed this reaction, since he began sucking on John's neck, leaving a throbbing love-bite that marked his lover's skin. What a bloody tease! 

That thought didn't even have time to disappear in his mind before he felt Sherlock's hand travelling lower and lower, sliding under the waistband of his pants.

It must have been a dream. But God, John wanted it to last. Sherlock's touch seemed pretty real, though. Too real and too warm to be just an illusion.

In that moment John hated his decency that made him grab Sherlock's wrist.

“You don't have to do this,” he muttered, barely coherent, as he gritted his teeth, unable to withstand the pressure. It was too much. He'd have to visit the bathroom and jerk off soon or he'd go insane. “I told you--” 

Sherlock didn't let him finish that sentence. 

“I know, John. But I want to do this. Please, allow me...”

And John did, despite his uncertainty. The desire was too strong to resist any longer.

He felt Sherlock's hand slither inside his pants. John' gasped when the detective's fingertips brushed against the skin on his inner thigh. Over and over again up to his groin, twisting his pubic hair around the first joint of his index finger.

An undignified whine left John's throat. That was just cruel.

Sherlock seemed to finally understand that he shouldn't tease John any longer. The man had to wait his fair share of time already. 

When the detective's hand palmed his crotch, John rolled his hips, tilted his head back and shivered with anticipation. When the fingers coiled around the shaft, John bit on his lower lip to muffle a soft moan. When Sherlock's hand finally moved up to the head in one sharp stroke, John completely lost it.

“ _Christ_ , Sherlock!”

“Is that good?” he asked curiously, as if he was in a middle of an experiment and was about to jot down some notes. He twisted his hand and let his thumb brush against the sensitive underside of the head, which elicited another sharp intake of air from John. As he began stroking him, Sherlock's every movement screamed of inexperience, but he made up for it with his eagerness. 

“A little slower... Yes, just like that, mhm... Yes!” John gasped in bliss.

Sherlock obeyed his instructions, observing John's face with fascination. He felt oddly proud that it was he who painted such ecstasy on his lover's features. He bowed his head, burying it in John's neck, his tongue and lips attacking his skin. John's started thrusting erratically into his hand and Sherlock picked up the pace, listening to the incoherent grunts that were escaping John's throat as he reached his climax. 

A few strokes more and John's whole body tensed, only to go limp a few seconds later. Sherlock's hand and the pyjamas ended up soaked in John's sticky aftermath.

Sherlock felt slightly overwhelmed. He just brought his lover to orgasm and that seemed like the most physically intimate thing they had ever done. However, would that be enough to please John and quench his lust? He knew he couldn't offer much more. 

“Did you like it?” Sherlock asked with uncharacteristic hesitance, holding his breath. The embarrassment tinted his cheeks pink. 

John purred like a lazy cat and turned around to press his boneless body against Sherlock's, nuzzling his face against the detective's chest. Instead of replying, he lifted his head to plant a fiery kiss on his partner's heart-shaped lips, now hanging open in surprise.

“Very,” he smiled languidly, caressing Sherlock's chest in a tender gesture. He really missed sex and the feeling of closeness and security it brought. That was something hard to understand for an asexual person, he figured. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome, John.” He reciprocated the smile, glad and relieved that John was satisfied. “I don't mind doing it. Really. So whenever you feel... _the need_ , just tell me and I'll be happy to oblige.” 

“Mhm... I'll keep that in mind. You sure you don't want me to repay the favour?” John asked, putting his hand over Sherlock's beating heart. 

Sherlock shook his head without a moment of doubt. 

“No, I'd rather not,” he admitted. Remembering what they had talked about the last time – honesty – he added, grudgingly. “I'm not exactly comfortable with the idea of penetration or your hands touching my private area.”

John nodded with understanding, not judging him in the least.

“All right then, so I won't. But kissing and cuddling are okay?” He wanted to make sure not to overstep any boundaries.

“Kissing and cuddling are okay,” Sherlock confirmed, placing a gentle kiss on John's forehead and the man in turn snuggled to him closer.

It wasn't the relationship the doctor fantasized about in his wildest dreams, but it was perfect nonetheless and he wouldn't trade Sherlock for anyone else, no matter how robust their sexual appetite was. After all, there was so much more to love about Sherlock than his genitals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last chapter of Like a Virgin. Thanks to all of you who read it, it's been a great fun to write this fic. Please leave kudos and comments if you liked it. :)


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